and that now the wheels have been greased. Doctor Mach is
desperately proud of him, especially of the way in which he
responds to _normal diversion-environments_ and _friendships_. You
must instruct his mother very carefully as to references to his
former condition. It is best that he should not dwell upon the
former condition. Your young friend, Gargoyle, sees no more spooks.
He is rapidly developing into a very remarkable and unconceited
horticulturist!

The first few days at Mockwood were spent at the little gardener's
cottage, from which the other youngsters had flown. Berber, quietly
moving about the tiny rooms, sitting buried in a scientific book or
taking long trips afield, was the recipient of much maternal flattery.
He accepted it all very gently; the young culturist had an air of quiet
consideration for every one and absolutely no consciousness of himself.
He presumed upon no special prerogatives, but set immediately to work to
make himself useful. It was while he was weeding the box borders leading
to the herb-gardens of Heartholm that Mrs. Strang first came upon him.
Her eyes, suddenly confronted with his as he got to his feet, dropped
almost guiltily, but when they sought his face a second time, Evelyn
Strang experienced a disappointment that was half relief. The sunburnt
youth, in khaki trousers and brown-flannel shirt, who knelt by the
border before her was John Strang Berber, Doctor Mach's human
masterpiece; this was not "Gargoyle."

"That is hardly suitable work for a distinguished horticulturist," the
mistress of Heartholm smiled at the wilting piles of pusley and sorrel.

White teeth flashed, deep eyes kindled. Berber rose and, going to a
garden seat, took up some bits of glass and a folded paper. He showed
her fragments of weed pressed upon glass plates, envelopes of seeds
preserved for special analyzation. "There's still a great undiscovered
country in weed chemistry," he eagerly explained, "perhaps an anodyne
for every pain and disease."

"Yes, and deadly poisons, too, for every failure and grief." The
mistress of Heartholm said it lightly as she took the garden seat,
thinking how pleasant it was to watch the resolute movements and
splendid physical development of the once weazened Gargoyle. She began
sorting out her embroidery silks as Berber, the bits of glass still in
his hand, stood before her. He was smiling.

"Yes, deadly poisons, too," agreeing with a